


Talk Me Through It

by Minutia_R



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Crack, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Sibling Rivalry, Voice Kink, d/s dynamics, proxy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: After she and Michael break up, Guðrún has an unusual problem, and she thinks Mikkel might be able to help her with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Did somebody order weird awkward smut? No? Here, have some weird awkward smut anyway.
> 
> (Actually, MadameFolie, Kiraly, and NevillesGran all provided a lot of encouragement, for which I thank them from the bottom of my weird awkward heart. You guys are great. <3)

Mikkel has only been on the base for a week, but the routine is already familiar. Twisted ankles. Hangovers. Raw recruits who have never run a kilometer in their lives, and who want a medical excuse to stay in bed. The malingerers, he sends to the mage, figuring that one charlatan deserves another, but he suspects that she’s beginning to catch on, and that she’s not amused. Norwegians apparently have no sense of humor. Much like Danes, really.

There’s a knock on the door of what might charitably be termed his office. “Come in,” Mikkel calls.

The door opens just wide enough to admit a woman, and then closes again hastily. She really doesn’t want anyone to know she’s here.

Not a woman. _The_ woman. The Icelandic demolitions expert. The reason Mikkel is here, though he’s been avoiding her all week.

“You sound exactly like him,” she says.

“Yes, that’s what identical means,” says Mikkel, with a touch of impatience to cover his awkwardness. He realizes a second too late that she didn’t say, you _look_ exactly like him.

“I didn’t really believe it when Aslaug said you could help me,” she says. “But maybe you can.”

Ah. Aslaug, the mage. She _has_ caught on, then. Mikkel revises his estimate of the capacity of Norwegians for humor slightly upwards. “What seems to be the trouble?” he says.

She lifts her chin and sets her jaw defiantly, but she doesn’t speak right away, and she won’t look him in the eye. Guðrún, that’s her name. Moder--who should really know the difference between Norwegians and Icelanders--only ever called her “that Norwegian woman.” As in, when Mikkel came in from milking one morning and found an official-looking military letter for him, and mildly asked why he had been accepted to a post in Norway that he didn’t recall applying for, “I need you to go find out if Michael is serious about that Norwegian woman.”

Well, he wasn’t. In fact, he was gone before Mikkel got there, leaving Mikkel to reap a harvest of confusion and dirty looks he hasn’t earned. It’s not the first time. And a job away from the farm is a job away from the farm, until it isn’t anymore, which will probably happen soon enough. Sooner, if Aslaug has any pull with the higher-ups on the base.

“Look, it’s,” says Guðrún. “Michael and I … we were into some kinda weird stuff, okay?”

“Did he hurt you?” Mikkel asks in a carefully neutral voice, his belly gone cold. He wouldn’t. Not Michael. But he has to ask.

“No!” Guðrún’s response is immediate, outraged and incredulous, and Mikkel remembers how to breathe. “No, not like--it was for fun. It _was_ fun. And we weren’t thinking that we were going to break up, and even if we had been, it didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem. Afterwards. But it is.”

“Ah,” says Mikkel, completely at sea in this discussion of his twin’s sex life, which apparently includes some kinda weird stuff. A fact he could happily have gone to his grave without knowing. He will think of some particularly good way to pay Aslaug back for this, later. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Mmm.” To Mikkel’s astonishment, Guðrún is purring. Her posture has gone much less defensive. Relaxed. Her eyes slightly unfocused. “Yeah. Specific. Okay, that’s part of the thing, right? When you tell me to do something. In _that_ voice. I can’t not. And it feels good.”

“You can’t--?” says Mikkel. The idea is ridiculous. But Icelanders are every bit as superstitious as Norwegians, and if Guðrún is particularly suggestible--Michael would not have taken advantage of her intentionally. Is there a difference, though, between believing one has no choice and having no choice? It’s a more theological question than Mikkel feels qualified to answer. Guðrún believes he can help her somehow. Focus on that.

“Oh, well, I can, obviously. If I want to. It’s just easier to listen. So thank you for that, because it really isn’t easy to talk about it, and direct orders help, so …” Guðrún buries her fingers in her hair where it’s braided up off her forehead and looks at Mikkel from beneath the heels of her hands. Dark hair and wide, dark eyes. She looks young, all of a sudden, and sheepish. “Sorry, I’m making this weird, aren’t I? I didn’t mean it to be weird.”

“It’s all right,” Mikkel assures her. It is weird, but that’s hardly Guðrún’s fault. There must be some way he can bring this interview back onto a more professional footing. His office has an examining table, though he hasn’t used it yet. For lack of other space, it has accumulated a certain amount of clutter. Papers. Used tea mugs. One of the base’s cats. Mikkel clears it all off--to the cat’s immense indignation--and gestures to the table invitingly. “Here. Have a seat.”

Guðrún goes bedroom-eyed at him again as she climbs up onto the table. He did phrase that as an order, didn’t he. He clears his throat. “Let’s start from the beginning,” he suggests. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Guðrún grips the edge of the examining table, looks him in the eye, and says, “I can’t achieve sexual climax.”

“And--” Professional. Neutral. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since Michael and I broke up. It was a game we used to play--I wasn’t allowed to come until he told me to. And now he isn’t around to tell me to anymore, and I can’t.”

“I see,” says Mikkel. If his voice has the same effect on her that Michael’s had--and he can see that it does have an effect on her--then the way he can help with her predicament is equally obvious. He’s read about such things, in the Old World, women making regular visits to doctors to “treat their hysteria”. Not that Mikkel is a doctor, but it amounts to the same thing. A practical arrangement.

It would be unethical, of course, to ask for any favors in return, but even so. To hold the keys to a woman’s pleasure, to grant or deny it at will, knowing that she would be getting it from him or not at all. He can see the attraction of the idea, as easily as he can see the attraction of Guðrún herself. Her forthrightness and solidity, the heavy braided crown of her hair and the ample swell of her hips. He’s not surprised that Michael fell for her. Nor is he surprised, really, that Michael failed to think through the consequences of his sexual games before he started in on them. Thinking things through has never been Michael’s strong point. It’s Mikkel’s.

And there is the truth of it. It’s not Guðrún’s person, or the prospect of controlling it, that attracts Mikkel most: it’s the puzzle she’s presented him with.

“And before that,” he says. “Did you ever have any trouble reaching a conclusion?”

“Well … it took a little while to figure things out, with Michael.” Guðrún’s voice has gone soft and dreamy, her eyes sliding away from Mikkel to some remembered scene that Mikkel has no desire to contemplate closely. “After that, no. With my other partners … I never had that many. Michael was the first one who ever got me off. I used to be able to manage by myself, though. Not all of the time, but sometimes.”

“And what used to work for you no longer does?”

Guðrún catches her lower lip in her teeth for a moment, releases it. “Yeah.”

Mikkel could ask more questions, but the answers would be of limited utility. There’s a simpler way. “Show me,” he says.

It is, deliberately, an order, pitched low and curt, and Guðrún whimpers like she’s had the breath knocked out of her. She swings her legs up onto the table and lies down on her back, undoes her belt, pulls her pants down around her knees. The flesh of her thighs is white and lush; if he dug his fingers into them, Mikkel thinks, they would sink in up to the first knuckle. She parts her labia, revealing delicate pink folds nestled in her black curls, dips two fingers inside. They come out glistening with moisture, and she starts rubbing slow circles on her clit. She favors her left hand.

Her eyes are half-lidded, pointed at the ceiling without seeming to see it. She certainly isn’t looking at Mikkel, for which he is grateful. He can feel a flush creeping up his chest, and he’s developing a rather unprofessional erection which his uniform is insufficient to hide.

He’s prepared to wait. Guðrún has fortunately come to him at a slow time of day, after the usual round of morning complaints and before the first patrols return in the afternoon. But in fact, it’s only a couple of minutes before she gasps out, in a smaller voice than he’s heard her use before, “Can I come, please?”

“No,” says Mikkel.

She gives a brief, frustrated whine, and her fingers still.

“I didn't say to stop touching yourself,” says Mikkel. “I’m not going to give you permission to come. If you want it, you'll take it yourself.”

“Oh.” Guðrún blinks, surfacing from whatever depths she’s been sunk in, thinking Mikkel’s words through. “I don’t think that's going to work. It hasn't yet.”

“Who’s the medic here?” says Mikkel. “You or me?”

This earns him a breathy laugh. “You are, I guess.”

“Well then.”

Guðrún’s head falls back the centimeter or so that she raised it when she was speaking with him. When she starts rubbing again and lets her eyes go from halfway to all the way shut, he’s seized with the impulse to cup her face with his hand. The skin of her eyelid would be soft beneath his thumb, the lashes ticklish.

Instead, he says, “You’re doing very well.”

It seems to have been a right thing to say. Her breath catches, her hips roll upwards to meet her hand, her shoulders relax until they’re melting bonelessly into the examining table.

Even so, it takes longer than it did the first time for her to reach the brink of her climax. It’s as though, now that Mikkel has explained his thinking, her body knows what's coming and is fighting it back. Not indefinitely, though. Eventually, her thighs begin to tremble, her breath to come unevenly, too rapidly. Her skin is covered with a sheen of sweat, and the office is filled with the smell of her.

“Tell me I can come,” she begs. “ _Please._ Oh gods, I need--”

“No,” says Mikkel.

Her eyes snap open, burning into his, fierce and desperate. “Bastard,” she growls, her hand not stopping its work, or her hips their rocking. “Devil.”

She might still be seeing and hearing Michael, but Mikkel thinks not. He’s pretty sure she means him.

After that, it’s not long at all. Her eyes open a fraction wider, and she says, “Oh,” on an intake of breath, truly surprised. She balls her free hand into a fist and presses it against her mouth, not entirely managing to silence her groans as she shudders in the grip of her orgasm, twisting first one way and then the other on the narrow table.

Slowly, she lowers her right hand from her mouth. Her groans fade to whimpers, and her twisting turns back to trembling, and then stillness. She takes her left hand from between her legs, opens and closes it, easing cramps, and finally rests it on her belly. “Oh,” she says again, softly. Her eyes are closed, and she adds, without opening them, “So that's it? I’m cured?”

Mikkel has no idea. It’s not a topic they cover in field medicine courses. But experience has taught him that confidence can be as effective as any drug. “Absolutely,” he says. “Although--if you have any further trouble, please don't hesitate to consult me.”

“Sure.” Guðrún blinks, smiles up at him, pushes a few sweat-soaked strands of hair off her forehead. “And, uh--if there’s anything I can do for you--”

It’s an awkward offer--the whole situation is ridiculously awkward--but sincere. It wouldn’t have to happen more than once. It wouldn’t have to mean anything.

Mikkel can’t remember the last time he felt so raw. Guðrún could split him open with a touch.

“Thank you,” he says, “but I think it’s best not.”

“Oh. Okay.” Is she disappointed? Wistful? Whatever it is, it doesn’t last. She hops off the examining table and fastens her pants, makes a few small adjustments to her hair and uniform. “Well, even if that didn’t cure me … it was nice.” She rises up on her toes and kisses Mikkel briefly on the cheek, says, “Thank you,” and leaves the office as quickly as she entered it.

Mikkel props the door open to let the place air out a bit, piles the things back onto the examining table, and tries to think about medicines and dosages until the afternoon’s patients start to arrive.

Guðrún doesn’t come back. A few days later, Mikkel sees her in the mess with Aslaug perched on her knee, her arms twined around the mage’s slim waist. So Aslaug may have had a motive for sending Guðrún to Mikkel beyond revenge. It seems to have worked out. Mikkel wishes them luck.

Aslaug is remarkably even-tempered about it when Mikkel sends her his malingerers, these days.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Mikkel, you may not have gotten off, but at least I didn't a) kill you or b) make you complicit in your friends' deaths. Baby steps!


End file.
